


These Glass Walls

by endlesshorizons



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Emotionally Constipated John & Sherlock, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Reichenbach Revisited, Self-Esteem Issues, Trust Issues, Unreliable Narrator, Work In Progress, post-series 3, series 3 fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2624588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endlesshorizons/pseuds/endlesshorizons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The open bedroom door reveals an expanse of still-crumpled bedsheets. He walks Sherlock to the edge of the bed, tips him over until he falls onto the mattress, into the nest of off-white sheets which still smell of Mary's perfume.</i>
</p><p>The problem with Mary is easily sorted out. The aftermath -- not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chains

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh I really need to stop starting new projects when I still have old ones to work on...

John sits down heavily on the sofa and lets himself sink into the cushions. Mary is bustling through the house, running up and down the stairs looking for something or the other, and it makes John's already-frayed nerves bristle.

"I am very pissed off," he had said to Mary at Christmas, "and it will come out now and then."

Now and then doesn't begin to cover it. In the past few weeks, it's more like he doesn't know how to _not_ be angry at Mary. How to not be irritated by her every word and her every move, his simmering anger a constant companion that makes his heart beat a little faster than usual and his actions a little brisker.

The crux of the problem, of course, is this: he hates her. He despises everything she represents, and he has to pretend that he doesn't. (He is pretty sure that he is not managing it very well.)

_"No." John says sharply and with conviction. He would do a lot of things for Sherlock, but not this._

_"John, please, you have to."_

_"No," he repeats. "I can't. I won't go back."_

_Sherlock sighs. John would almost say he looks pained, but his expression quickly changes into one of frustration._

_"I'm not like you," John continues, "I can't deal with a psychopath."_

_Thankfully, Sherlock doesn't attempt to claim the title himself. "You need to," he says instead. "She's carrying your child."_

_"There are other ways. It's the 21st century, you don't have to be married to have kids."_

_"Mary is not a typical woman. You cannot divorce her and discuss custody. She will take the baby and leave, or she will come after you."_

Or you, _John thinks. "I don't want your logic, Sherlock, I just can't do it. I can't go back and pretend that nothing happened."_

_"You don't have to. You are allowed to be angry. But you have to let her know you forgive her."_

_"I don't," John says bluntly, "and I don't think I ever will."_

_"John..."_

_"After--" after the shot to the chest, the flatline, after the internal hemorrhage and the months of torturous recovery, Sherlock still wheezing and wincing uncomfortably at the slightest exertion even now. And the worst part of it, in the empty house, seeing the lack of remorse and the coldness of her expression once the facade had dropped, knowing that she would do it again without a second thought. "After everything she did, how can I forgive her? Now that I know what she is capable of, how am I supposed to_ forget _?"_

_"Precisely. Now that you know what she is capable of, how can you leave her with your child?"_

_John slumps into his chair. As always, arguing with Sherlock Holmes is an unwinnable battle._

It was only supposed to be until his daughter is born, and not a moment more. There was nothing else to keep him with Mary. She deserves to be in prison, and they would have found the evidence to get her there. If the Holmes brothers are capable of faking a death right in front of his eyes, then this should be no difficult task.

Except now Magnussen is dead, and Sherlock will be sent away in just a few hours. The future he has imagined for the past few months are slipping out of his hands. All of the futures he has imagined since meeting Sherlock are slipping out of his hands.

There is a knock at the door and a black car by the kerb, taking him to say good-bye, once again.

 

Jim Moriarty's face appears on a few million screens and everything turns upside down. His world has changed so many times during the last few months that sometimes he feels like he is dreaming, trapped in a surrealist painting as reality warps itself around him. It seems that whenever he thinks he has a handle on the situation and what his future looks like, he wakes up and the world is different once again.

"Are you two going to be okay by yourselves?" Mary asks, playing with the buttons of her jacket.

"Everything will be fine, it's not like I don't usually take care of her." John says, trying to keep his voice light as he looks up from where he sits cradling Victoria in his arms.

"I know, I'm just-- It's just my first time away from her," Mary replies, a faint crease lining her forehead and looking back even as she puts a hand out to open the door.

Distractedly, a part of him wonders if she actually is concerned. It's become a habit now, his mind idly questioning everything she says. The barely controlled anger of a few months ago have been muted into a faint sense of nausea hitting him at intervals, accepted as part of an uneasy status quo. John doesn't think he would be able to describe his feelings now if asked. The initially straightforward anger and hatred are no longer so clear-cut; his distaste has been muted and contorted into a vague, creeping sense of illness.

He doesn't know where things are headed now. Since the aborted flight, he has spoken to Sherlock just one single time. He isn't at Baker Street anymore, has been whisked away to a secret facility or even Mycroft's own residence -- John has no idea. He hasn't been able to get in touch with either of the Holmes brothers. He feels like he has been laid on the wayside, conveniently left to play house with the birth of his daughter while the grown-ups deal with the real problems.

Victoria snuffles in her sleep, and John looks down at the two-week-old infant. The crinkly pink face and the little raggly tuff of blonde hair inspire a blooming warmth in his chest, fierce and soothing over his constant unease. If he concentrates hard enough on the rise and fall of her miniature chest, the way her little legs occasionally twitch as she naps, he can convince himself for just a little while that things will be okay.

His phone pings. John sighs. He doesn't want to see the message. No doubt it's Mary asking him to bring something she has forgotten, or the clinic letting him know about a cancellation or an additional shift. He doesn't want to deal with any of those issues, but knows that this is his life now, until the Holmes brothers deign to let him in on what is going on -- when and if that ever happens.

_CIA watching your house. Get something for self-protection, but don't make it obvious._

_SH_

John thinks he can feel the sudden pump of adrenaline into his bloodstream. His gun is hidden under the floorboards in the bedroom, so retrieving it is out of the question. He looks around the living room, wondering what objects he can use. He shifts the angle of his body so that his left arm can easily reach out and grab the floor lamp with the long steel stem.

 _What's going on?_ He texts back.

_Stay calm. I'm coming._

_SH_

His heart rate leaps again, his eyes lingering on the last two words of the text.

_STOP. Everything under control. Do NOT take action._

_MH_

John frowns. He wonders who the "stop" is directed at. He certainly isn't moving anywhere. He can't help but feel a punch of disappointment at the thought that Mycroft seems to be forbidding Sherlock from coming. _You're a grown man, not a teenaged girl_ , John chastises himself, _and this is_ definitely _not an appropriate response to the situation._

_A car will be with you in 20 minutes._

_MH_

_Fat, meddling git_ , says the Sherlock voice in his head. At least this means he will finally get some idea of what is going on. (Not the whole idea though -- he knows better than to expect that.)

 

John sits with Victoria in the dark, windowless room in the basement of the Diogenes Club. Seated before the large mahogany desk, he is staring straight at the grand portrait of the Queen. This office is nothing like the other one he had been in, before the business with Moriarty had gotten started, which was low-key and could even be called comfortable. This one has more in common with the empty warehouse where he had first met the man, infused with that Holmesian flair of mystery and drama. It's dark and elegant, and it makes him feel small and insignificant, as if he is an ignorant outsider fortunate enough to be granted audience with the British Government himself. John wonders if that is Mycroft's intention.

The door opens. Despite his previous admonitions to himself to quash his expectations, he finds himself holding his breath. Mycroft walks in, followed by a sullen Sherlock Holmes. He is even thinner than before, and his eyes carry a heaviness that makes him look more like his brother than John is comfortable with. He doesn't say anything either, just nods at John and glances at the bundle in his arms as Mycroft makes his greetings.

Mycroft doesn't waste any time getting down to business. "As my brother has noted, the CIA is currently watching your residence. I want to assure you that, despite the unfortunate circumstances of your last encounter with them, they mean no harm to either you or your daughter."

John shifts Victoria in his arms, unconsciously pulling her closer to him. "I assume you're in contact with them?"

Mycroft nods.

"What are you planning?"

"I'm afraid we can't tell you at this juncture," he replies. John huffs. No, of course they can't. "You are to continue playing your part. I can say that your...situation will be resolved very soon in the future."

His situation. Mary. John draws in a deep breath. He has been waiting for this for months, for this farce of a marriage to finally draw to a close. But now that the end is finally in sight, John doesn't quite know how to feel. This quiet, albeit false and stifling domesticity will soon be over, swept aside as the illusion that it is, but John can't quite imagine what comes after. Back to Baker Street, he supposes, but even though he had been living there just a few months ago, the idea seems foreign. More specifically, he can't imagine Victoria at Baker Street. Could Sherlock be convinced to keep his experiments and body parts out of the flat? Would he even be able to tolerate a screaming, crying baby? What would it mean if he couldn't? Would he have to look for accomodations elsewhere?

John forces himself to stop wondering about the possibilities. One step at a time. It's no use worrying about that yet.

"What about Moriarty?" he asks instead. "Is he really back?"

Mycroft draws his lips into a thin line. This time, it is Sherlock who answers, and John is surprised that he has let his brother speak this entire time without interrupting.

"We're not sure. That's what we have been looking into the past few weeks."

"Any leads?"

"None that have come to fruition."

John looks back and forth between the two brothers, both of whom have fallen silent.

"That's it? You brought me here, to your--your lair, just to say that you have basically nothing to tell me?"

For the first time, Sherlock's eyes flash with a hint of his old childish amusement. "Don't call it a lair, it just indulges his megalomania."

"It's hardly megalomania if the power is real, Sherlock," Mycroft sighs and turns to frown at his brother. "I brought you here because I sensed that the lack of contact has become counterproductive to the point of causing restlessness and impatience. But now that we are done here, it is time you returned home before your wife notices your absence."

Right on cue, without giving John a chance to comment, the office door opens and the same nondescript driver from earlier gestures at him to follow. Right, then, just another pawn to be placated then set into place. With a final glance backwards, John stands to follow the man out the door.

 

Mary was planning to be out with her friends until later that evening, and there are still several hours to spare by the time that John and Victoria are dropped off at the house. With Victoria dozing beside him, John mostly stares at a blank Internet browser until Mary returns home, peeling off her wet jacket and chattering about the latest gossip with the girls. She asks John if he has eaten yet, and gathers Victoria into her arms when she wakes and begins to fuss. John stares at the cup of tea she has placed in front of him, as she always does before bed, and wonders at how normal everything is and how quickly their mundane routine is going to change. He cannot bring himself to drink the tea, and heads to the bedroom instead.

John is awakened by Mary calling his name. As it often does, it takes him a moment in the dark to remember where he is, the memories of the last few months and the remnants of his still-fresh dreams clambering as they rearrange themselves into a reality he can recognise. Then, as his sight focuses with awareness, he realises that he cannot recognise the present reality after all. He is staring into the barrel of a gun.

"Mary? What are you doing?"

She sighs. "Leaving, what do you think?"

He looks up, sees that she is dressed in dark but ordinary clothing, Victoria slung across her chest in a strap.

"Leaving?" he repeats, staring at where Victoria's head is bobbing up and down with each breath.

"Really, you left me with no choice, with what you pulled today." She smiles that sardonic half-smile that he barely recognises. "Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

He doesn't bother answering her. "You're taking Victoria?" he asks instead.

"Of course I'm taking my daughter."

"Our daughter."

Mary laughs. "My daughter. I had the tests done." She gestures to the envelope on the bedside drawer, her gun following him as he reaches over for it. He clenches his fists. Really, he isn't even surprised.

"Leave her with me. She will be safer."

Mary raises an eyebrow. "Even though she's not yours?"

John nods. It doesn't matter, not really.

"Always trying to be a saint," Mary mocks, narrowing her eyes. "But you're nowhere near as nice as you pretend to be. You were planning to hand over your own wife!"

John wants to protest that he is nothing like her, but he knows that it will only make matters worse. "Don't you want your daughter to be safe?" he asks instead, looking her steadily in the eye.

"I want my daughter to be _mine_ ," she snarls. For a moment, he is taken aback by her ferocity.

_There is nothing in this world that I would not do to stop that happening._

John shivers.

"Drink the tea," Mary commands.

John looks at where she is gesturing at, and sees the untouched cup of tea from earlier that night. Suddenly, he realises that he knows nothing about this woman at all.

"What's in it?" he asks.

"You'll be fine. Knocked out for 24 hours, but no long-term effects. And Victoria and I will be long gone by then."

He eyes the murky liquid, not quite believing the disclaimer. He glances back up at where Mary is pointing a gun at his head and where Victoria is lying against her chest. He wonders what his chances are of disarming her.

"Drink it!" she demands, putting her finger on the trigger.

He does. The tea is cold as it slides down his throat. The last thing he remembers is Mary's frigid, level stare.


	2. Erase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It becomes one of those moments when nothing seems quite real and everything seems very much possible. Rational thoughts struggle to form then give up, and John forgets why it had all seemed so difficult before.

John is back in Mycroft's dungeon of an office. His head still feels heavy from the hours he had spent unconscious under the influence of Mary's drug, and a dull ache on the right side of his head fades in and out periodically. To be honest, he was a bit surprised to wake up at all.

Someone presumably from the CIA is seated in Mycroft's usual seat, grilling him about everything he knows about Mary. Mycroft himself is sitting quietly on the opposite side of the room, wordlessly watching the proceedings. The questions are endless -- what did Mary look like the night she disappeared, if there was anything she might have said, what her habits were like when she lived in London... John has stopped counting the number of times the American woman has raised an eyebrow or pressed him for confirmation since the interrogation began. She is making no effort to hide her suspicion of him, and her every insinuation adds to the anger building up inside of him. He clenches and unclenches his fists under the desk, wanting to lash out or at least bring his palms to his own head to drive away the headache.

Again, the woman from the CIA asks about his previous knowledge of Victoria's parentage, and which other men Mary was in frequent contact with. How many times does she need him to repeat that he doesn't know? It is already humiliating enough having to admit to strangers that the daughter he thought was his actually isn't.

His arms feel ironically heavy without the weight of Victoria in them, and an instinctual part of his brain is reeling in confusion at the sudden lack of a child to protect, at the idea that she was never his to protect at all. Maybe if he had tried harder, he could have found a way to stop Mary or at least convinced her to leave Victoria with him. Ever since he had woken up less than a day ago, he has played the scene again and again in his head, wondering what he could have done to change the outcome.

Finally, after what feels like hours and hours, the woman appears to run out of questions. She leaves with a promise to Mycroft to follow up, and yet another wary glance at John. The door closes behind her and, moments later, the man standing guard outside the door shows Sherlock in.

"Is this really necessary, Mycroft?" Sherlock growls, sounding as frustrated as John feels. Sherlock has probably just gone through his own round of questions, John supposes. He pities the poor sod who was assigned to interrogate Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft crosses his legs where he sits, appearing to be completely unruffled. "Procedure, little brother. You can't weasel your way out of it every time." He turns to look at John. "Is there anything you would like to add to your statement now that our American friend is gone?"

John's patience finally snaps. He isn't sure if it is because of the last repetition of the query, or if he is so cowardly as to only allow his anger to show when he knows there is no fear of consequences. "Why don't you go ahead and say it, Mycroft? You think that I let her go?"

Mycroft lets out a great, put-upon sigh. "I was only asking a question, John. Of course I know you didn't let her go." He gets up from his chair and walks out from his desk, in the guise of stretching his legs. "But you really could have done a better job with the situation, what with all the practice you've had with Sherlock. It's a pity. We almost had her."

John bristles at the accusation, refusing to let his mind repeat the exact same thing back at himself. "Why does it have to be my fault? You had the intelligence agencies of two countries at your disposal!"

"You were the one closest to the mark. We put our trust in you."

"Oh, I'm sorry, that's not my wife we're talk about, she's your _mark_. If I was supposed to be doing your dirty work, maybe you should have given me a briefing. And you know, a paycheque!"

Mycroft opens his mouth to reply, but Sherlock cuts in. "Shut up, Mycroft. Stop imposing your own failure on John. If we're done with our statements, we will be leaving now."

Mycroft turns to look his brother in the eye. "Curious. You don't seem as concerned about 'Mary''s disappearance as I imagined. Aren't you bothered that you _lost_?" Finally, John can see a bead of genuine frustration slipping through the icy condescension.

" _I_ didn't lose!" Sherlock snaps. " _You_ lost. Your deal with the Americans fell through, didn't it? What were you supposed to get for her? Why don't you enlighten us as to how it's a matter of _national importance_?"

The two brothers just glare at each other for a second. "Of course you don't care," Mycroft finally says, "after all, you got what you wanted." He throws a glance at John. A breath catches in his throat as John takes in the implication. He looks over at Sherlock, but he refuses to return his gaze.

Instead, Sherlock shrugs on his jacket and heads for the door. "Let's go, John."

John spares one last look at Mycroft, who simply looks resigned and waves his dismissal, and gets up to leave. Just as Sherlock is about to turn the doorknob, he hears Mycroft give a final sigh.

"You know, we will likely never find her again. We know how good she is at hiding."

He doesn't know how to parse Mycroft's tone, wonders if he has deduced John's silent wish for Victoria's safety. In the end, he just nods. Sherlock opens the door, and he steps through. As he passes his friend, he thinks he hears him mutter, "Good."

 

There is an awkward moment in the car when they slip inside and the well-dressed driver asks for an address. For a second, neither John nor Sherlock say anything. Suddenly, he doesn't quite know how to ask if he can go back to Baker Street. It feels presumptuous to invite himself back to the flat, to assume that Sherlock still wants a flatmate.

"I need to pick up some things from my house," John says, turning to Sherlock with the silent question.

Sherlock doesn't reply, only leans forward to give the driver the address, and John can't find the words to express his request. Silence falls between the two of them as each stares out the tinted windows at the streets of London passing by. John thinks back to the deductions and laughter, even on their first cab ride together to that crime scene years ago, and feels the quiet like a mist strangling the air out of his lungs. The past sixteen months have been full of stilted half-starts and stops as new events repeatedly redefine their relationship every time they begin to mend their friendship. In one way or another, the dynamic between them has never been the same since Sherlock returned from the dead.

John wracks his brain for a conversation topic, the way that one does with new acquaintances and people they are unwillingly trapped in the same room with. Nothing that comes to mind seems appropriate. Finally, John settles on a question that he has been wondering about since finding out about the CIA's involvement.

"Why didn't you just take Mary away, instead of following her around? The CIA knows who she is, doesn't it?"

"Information," Sherlock replies. "Mary might have still been in contact with some leftover remnants of Moriarty's network."

"Moriarty? What does she have to do with Moriarty? And I thought you took out all of his network."

"During her 'freelance' days, as Magnussen called it, she held a high-level position in Jim Moriarty's hierarchy, although she supposedly left him five years ago."

John swivels his head around to stare at Sherlock. "She worked for Moriarty? You never told me that!"

Sherlock has the decency to look away with a guilty expression. "We were afraid that the information would have interfered with your ability to play your part in the plan."

John turns back to the window. "Of course, of course it would have."

 

The car rolls to a stop in front of John's house and he steps outside. For a moment, he stares at the closed doors of the vehicle and has no idea if Sherlock plans to follow, but then the door on the other side is pushed open and Sherlock exits. The car drives away behind them, leaving the two of them at the door. John fumbles with the key and leads them inside. He realises that this is the first time that Sherlock has set foot inside the house. In all the months since Sherlock came back, it was always John (and sometimes Mary) who went to Baker Street.

The living room is just as he left it. The room is sparsely furnished and relatively tidy for a house with a newborn, only a few blankets and toys lying about. The sofa is new with neatly arranged cushions, unlike the ratty, well-worn one at Baker Street that Sherlock has monopolised. To all appearances, this could just be an ordinary day, John coming back from a case that has kept him out late. Instead, he is faced with the knowledge that Mary and Victoria are gone from his life forever.

He excuses himself to go make them tea. He is grateful to find dishes still sitting in the sink, and washes them as he waits for the kettle to boil. The mundane, domestic task soothes the urge to knock over the artfully arranged furniture and claw at them until they break down into their bare splinters. He isn't like that, he won't be that kind of man, John tells himself, taking deep breaths in and out in pursuit of calmness. He needs to get away from this house, he knows. He needs to get away from this house with its pretty package of lies and this neighbourhood with its thin veneer of quiet respectability over ugly secrets and gossip. It had always reminded him too much of his childhood home, and he must have been mad to believe that he could ever be happy here. He will go back into the living room, he decides, and ask Sherlock if he can move back into the flat.

When he emerges from the kitchen with two mugs in hand, Sherlock is examining the framed photographs on the mantlepiece. He wills his hands not to shake as he walks over and puts the mugs down on the brick ledge. There is Victoria, the day she left the hospital, little eyes scrunched up as she burrowed herself into Mary's chest. Beside it is his and Mary's wedding photo, with Sherlock himself a smaller, serious figure in the background.

"John?" He turns to see Sherlock staring at him, standing much too close as he always does. "All right?"

John just looks at Sherlock for a moment, then he begins to laugh. It is possibly the stupidest thing he has ever heard come out of Sherlock's mouth. How can he even ask that as they stand in this house, the shrine of everything that has gone wrong with John's life? He glances back at the pictures. Lies, all of them. They show a woman who is not his wife and a child who is not his daughter. Photos of a wedding where he married a person who doesn't exist and the love of his life stood as best man. No, of course he isn't all right.

Without thinking he reaches his arm out, and he doesn't even realise that he has grabbed Victoria's photo and is aiming it at the wall until Sherlock grasps his wrist. Sherlock won't even allow him this, won't allow him to see Mary's fabrications smashed into pieces the way she had shattered his entire life and sense of self.

John raises his other hand to free himself from Sherlock's hold. His palm connects with Sherlock's wrist, and he suddenly realises that they are standing even closer than before. When he looks up, he finds that his face is bare inches from Sherlock's. He can feel Sherlock's pulse under his fingers, speeding up rapidly to match the galloping of his own.

"John," Sherlock whispers, and this time it's less of a question and more of an exhale of air.

It becomes one of those moments when nothing seems quite real and everything seems very much possible. Rational thoughts struggle to form then give up, and John forgets why it had all seemed so difficult before. For a fanciful second John imagines that every pump of his heart sends blood through his fingertips into Sherlock's veins, and that he can feel the influx of fluid in return.

It is easy, then, to lift a hand to weave into Sherlock's hair, and simple to tilt his head up to meet Sherlock's lips with his own. Sherlock freezes for a moment, and just as doubt is starting to creep its way into John's muddled consciousness, he gasps and all the rigidness falls away from his body. He drags John against him and his lips are clumsy as they push back but John barely notices in his haste to swallow every breath that escapes between Sherlock's lips.

Then Sherlock pulls back, and the loss leaves an empty space inside of John into which reality threatens to encroach. "Are you sure about this?" he asks between uneven pants, "You've only just--"

"Shut up," John growls, diving across the inches which have opened up between them. "I need you to shut up right now."

Miraculously, Sherlock does. He lets John step into him, his body malleable as John pushes him onwards until his back hits a wall, the crunch of a picture frame forgotten beneath their feet.

"What else do you need?" Sherlock gasps, and the breathless sound of his voice under John's hands, just a vibration of hot air against his cheek, is a roaring wave of chemicals crashing through him from head to toe.

"Bedroom," he manages to get out.

They stumble to the stairs, alternatively pushing and tugging, lumbering over each other as they attempt to climb the short flight of steps without letting go. Bit by bit, their clothing fall to the wayside as they make their way to the top of the landing.

The open bedroom door reveals an expanse of still-crumpled bedsheets. He walks Sherlock to the edge of the bed, tips him over until he falls onto the mattress, into the nest of off-white sheets which still smell of Mary's perfume. Sherlock's dark hair is striking against them, even in the dim light stealing in through the window, and the mix of silvery moonlight and yellowish streetlamps highlight the rises of his cheekbones and the gleam in his eyes. John thinks that he is the most beautiful sight he has ever seen, lying there naked and reaching for him.

When he finally climbs onto the bed after him, John takes care to spread him out across the covers and kisses and presses and tugs until Sherlock is squirming and digging into the sheets; he buries his hands deep into the now-chaotic mess of curls, tugging and scratching until loose strands litter the pillows. And later, much later, when they are lying quietly side by side and Sherlock reaches down to grab an abandoned shirt, John catches his hand and wipes the two of them with a corner of the bedsheet instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of smut there -- I really can't write porn. But hey, that's why the work's rated mature not explicit, so fair warning there.
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter!


End file.
